Promises of Home jp-3

by Jeff Abbott

  Gretchen? Concerned about me? The world was getting weirder by the hour.

  “How are Mark and Arlene holding up? Have they seen him?” Eula Mae asked, taking a casserole dish from Davis, who was now having to comfort a once-again weepy Ed.

  “No, they haven’t, and I told him to mind his distance.”

  “Well, sweetie, I’m sure it’ll all work out. I really must get inside and see how poor Truda is. How’s she holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected, considering her son’s been murdered. Actually, I think Truda is an amazingly strong-”

  “Excuse me.” A distinguished-looking gentleman, tall and lanky with silvering brown hair, eased past the front door and came out onto the porch. I moved aside to let him pass and found myself slamming into Eula Mae’s casserole dish. Her jaw was about to dent the Saran Wrap cover of her broccoli-cheese-rice medley. I watched her watch the gentleman walk to an unoccupied corner of the porch, produce a pipe from the innards of his brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, and fill it with tobacco.

  “What marvelous hands,” Eula Mae breathed. “I wonder who that man is. I don’t believe I’ve seen him about.”

  I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have to go get that food to Miz Shivers?”

  Eula Mae recovered herself, although I found myself wondering if her plot logjam would be suddenly splintered by the appearance of a dashing new character in his early fifties. “Of course. C’mon, Davis, let’s go see Truda.” She went inside.

  Ed watched them go, blinking red-rimmed eyes. He took a long breath, as if he’d been swimming a distance, and walked over to me. He glanced around the porch, making sure we weren’t overheard. “Hey, Jordy, we need to talk. But not in this crowd. You gonna stay awhile?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Ed shook his head. “Damn sorry business this is.” He went inside.

  I made my way over to the pipe smoker, studying him as I approached. He looked educated, wealthy, and not a lick like any of the Shiverses, who kept a nice consistent gene pool that led to auburn hair, smiling ruddiness, and heft. He wasn’t watching me; his blue eyes were locked on my group of old friends. He turned, slightly startled, as I offered my hand.

  “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jordan Poteet, an old friend of Clevey’s.”

  “Hello.” His voice was full-bodied and soothing. “I’m Steven Teague.”

  I blinked. I didn’t know any Teagues in Mirabeau. “Are you visiting from out of town?” Never could say I wasn’t nosy. Perhaps he was a distant relative who lived in Austin or Houston.

  He puffed on his briar. “No, I’m new to Mirabeau.”

  “Were you a friend of Clevey’s?”

  “Not exactly.” He didn’t seem inclined to talk. I didn’t press the issue and left him alone with his pipe.

  I walked down the rest of the porch and one of Clevey’s numerous cousins stopped me. “Hey, you get anything out of that fellow?”

  “No, he didn’t say a word aside from his name and that he’s new to town.”

  “Well, according to Aunt Truda, he was Clevey’s psychotherapist.”

  Psychotherapist? Why on earth was Clevey seeking counseling? “Oh, I see,” I managed to say aloud.

  I excused myself and approached Steven Teague again. “Pardon me. I understand you were Clevey’s counselor?”

  He smiled thinly. “Wormed it out of the family, did you, Mr. Poteet?”

  “No, his cousin just told me. I didn’t realize that Clevey was in therapy.”

  He didn’t want to discuss Clevey’s problems; his face shut like a slammed door. “I felt I should come pay my respects. I know that Clevey was very close to his mother.” He produced a card: steven teague, lmsw-acp, therapy and counseling services with a Mirabeau address.

  Steven Teague saw me trying to decipher the code. “Don’t worry, I’m a licensed professional. I’ve got a master’s in social work, and I’m an advanced clinical practitioner.”

  “Oh, yes, well, I see,” I fumbled. Still-Clevey in therapy? He’d seemed moody at times, but he didn’t carry himself as though he were burdened with problems.

  “If, in the days to come, you find yourself troubled by this horrible incident, Jordan, and you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

  “Thanks,” I made myself say. Hearse chaser, I thought. But perhaps I was being uncharitable. I didn’t get much of a chance to ponder Steven Teague’s clinical ethics, Eula Mae materialized next to me, smiling up at Steven. Ed stood beside her.

  “Poor Truda is refreshing herself in the ladies’ room,” she murmured in a whispery aside to me. “I’ll just have to pay my respects later. And you are?”

  I introduced Steven to Eula Mae. I decided to leave him to her tender mercies-until I saw a truck pull up and park next to Eula Mae’s purple BMW.

  I recognized Hart Quadlander as soon as he got out, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that Trey was with him. Hart owned a big horse farm on the eastern outskirts of Mirabeau, and Trey’s father had worked for him for years. The Quadlanders went back to some of the original German settlers in Bonaparte County and they’d managed their money well. If there was still a gentleman farmer left in Central Texas, Hart was it. He was a fiftyish, tall, powerfully built man with a deceptively quiet voice and intense gray eyes.

  I thought Hart must’ve had the patience of five saints to put up with Trey and his daddy; they were a pair that was always heading for some kind of trouble or aggravation. Louis Slocum, Trey’s father, drank himself to death five years ago, still working on the Quadlander place; Trey had not returned for the funeral.

  I watched as Hart eased Trey’s wheelchair out of the truck and then carried Trey and settled him in the chair. Trey steadied the chair on the gravel driveway and began to roll forward.

  Of course, his arrival cleared the porch. Why not? An old, long-gone friend returned to the fold during the death of another. I watched, rooted to the spot, while Ed called Davis outside. They jogged over to Trey to say hello, wished him well, called him an old fart and scoundrel, and commiserated over Clevey. There’d been no loss of camaraderie there. Of course, Trey hadn’t nearly destroyed their families. I felt the gentle pressure of Eula Mae’s fingers on my arm.

  “You sure are tense,” she said. “Don’t let Trey get to you.”

  I shook off her arm. “I won’t, trust me. But look at them, acting like his return is the Second Coming.” Despite the sadness of the occasion, there was the sound of muted laughter from the group; once again, Trey was teasing Ed. Suddenly the porch seemed very lonely.

  “They’re his friends. You were once, too,” Eula Mae said. I turned to her, noting that Steven Teague took interest in our conversation. His eyes, an odd indigo, watched me intently.

  “Once. That’s the key word. We’re not friends anymore,” I said.

  “Don’t make a scene, Jordy. Please.” Eula Mae pressed my hand.

  “I won’t. I wouldn’t. I’m too upset about Clevey’s murder to let Trey get to me.”

  “The gentleman in the wheelchair-is he Trey Slocum?” Steven asked.

  “Yes. Do you know Trey?” I asked. Great, another partisan for the Slocum homecoming.

  “The famous Trey,” I barely heard Steven Teague whisper to himself under his breath. Clevey had talked about Trey in his therapy? Why?

  Steven Teague forced a smile to his patrician face; he’d read my face. “Oh, yes, generally old friends are mentioned during therapy. Clevey admired you in particular, Jordan. He said he wished he could be more like you.”

  That stung. I’d not spent enough time with Clevey, and now I had no time with him at all. But he had hardly reached out to me. I didn’t answer Steven Teague.

  The reunion moved up onto the porch, with Davis and Hart carrying Trey’s wheelchair up the steps. Trey saw me and he licked his lips, quickly looking up and smiling at Davis. Hart Quadlander spotted me and nimbly moved to forestall trouble.

  Hart’s voice rumbled de
eply, as though he’d caught gravel in it on the ride over. “Jordy. Eula Mae. Evenin’. How are y’all?”

  Even though I am a native Texan, I have never understood the constant need here to ask people how they are, especially in the midst of sorrow. “I’m fine, Hart. One of my childhood friends was murdered today. Trey’s come home. How do you think I feel?”

  “I’m awful sorry about Clevey, Jordy.” Hart tactfully ignored my sarcasm. “I didn’t know him very well, but I know y’all were friends from way back. Please, my sympathies.” He offered his hand.

  Of course I softened. I was mad at Trey and I felt shock over Clevey and I’d taken it out on him. I shook Hart’s hand. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I just am not up to-”

  “Jordy.” Trey wheeled himself over. His face was ashen. “Jesus, I’m just sick about Clevey. I can’t believe he’s dead. Would you please wheel me in and go with me to see Mrs. Shivers?”

  The silence on the porch was thick. I didn’t know what to say. After my confrontation with Trey this afternoon, the last thing I expected was the olive branch of friendship. I glanced away from Trey, from Hart, from my friends, and blinked, Clevey’s face flashing before me. Our friend was dead. So I took hold of the handles of his chair before I could think further and gently pushed him through the open doorway.

  “Sure. Let’s go,” I heard someone with my voice say. I felt a soft pat on my shoulder and the bump of rings told me it was Eula Mae.

  Mrs. Shivers, of course, was glad to see Trey but was shocked over his condition. She hugged his spare form a long time, almost cradling him in his chair. He described his accident-in more detail than he’d given me. It happened in Beaumont. The bull had thrown him, then trampled over him. He mentioned vertebrae I hadn’t heard of before and that surgery wasn’t going to be a help. There was no self-pity in his voice, and Mrs. Shivers responded to that, his troubles supplanting her own for the briefest of minutes. I lingered for ten or fifteen minutes until I felt the need for fresh air. I stumbled back out to the porch.

  “Jordy, got a minute?” Hart Quadlander was by my side. I saw Eula Mae had once again cornered Steven Teague, who was placidly eating a piece of pecan pie. Davis and Ed squatted on the porch steps. Bradley softly crooned “Rock of Ages” to himself, swaying back and forth on the porch swing to his own beat.

  “What, Hart?” I stepped off the other end of the porch, suddenly feeling exhausted. I was ready to go home.

  “I know seeing Trey’s got to be hard on you. It’s damned hard on me, too.” Hart removed his hat and ran a hand through his brown-and-gray hair. “His father was my best friend, and that boy didn’t even come back for his own daddy’s funeral.”

  “Now you know who you’re dealing with,” I said. “Trey’s no saint. He must be the most selfish person alive.”

  “You think what you want about Trey. But he has come home, and I for one am glad. He feels sick over not having been here for his daddy-”

  “Or his wife or child,” I quickly added.

  “Okay. He hasn’t been here for anyone that cared about him. But he’s home now, and he’s hurting, Jordy. More than just being crippled. He’s hurting ’cause he knows he did wrong. He wants to make up for it.”

  “Well and good, Hart, but don’t you think that he ought to be the one apologizing, not you?”

  “I’m not apologizing for him. I’m just saying what I reckon’s brought him back. He faced death in that rodeo arena and it’s a damned scary sight. He’s come home to heal. I want you to help him, Jordy.”

  “Home to heal. That’s rich. He left gaping wounds here-and now he wants to be admitted to some emotional trauma ward. Well, maybe he should talk to Steven Teague. Coddling Trey just isn’t high on my list of priorities.”

  Hart pushed back his Stetson. “Look, all I’m asking is-”

  “Oh, no. No,” I said as a car screeched to a halt in front of the house, nearly smashing Hart’s truck. I’d have recognized that red Hyundai anywhere. Sister had arrived, and I could tell when she got out of the car she was in a killing mood.

  4

  “Arlene, sugar, how are you?” Eula Mae tried to intercept Sister like a Patriot missile, but Sister was not to be easily downed. I saw her scan the porch, then beeline toward me and Hart Quadlander. I sensed Hart tense up and I can’t say I blamed him.

  She barreled down on Hart, not even greeting him in this place of mourning. “Where is my ex-husband?” she demanded. I surmised she was past her shock over Trey’s return.

  “Arlene, hello.” Hart really should have taken that foreign service test; he’s a natural diplomat. “I know you must feel awfully upset-”

  “Shut up, Hart, and just tell me where Trey is,” Arlene snapped. “I don’t want to hear from you.”

  Now, I’d be the first to note that Sister can be a tad sharp-tongued. I’ve been sliced, diced, and julienne-fried by her more than once. But rude; that’s never been her style. I stepped forward and took her shoulder. She slapped my hand away.

  “Let me be, Jordan. I’m not about to be patronized by you.”

  “I’m not about to patronize you,” I shot back. “Listen to me, Sister. This is not the time or place for you to confront Trey. People are grieving here, including me. Now, if you have any common sense left or respect for the dead, you’ll go on home. How on earth did you know Trey was here?”

  “A little birdie named Ivalou called me. He’s in the house?” She’d ignored everything I’d said. “Fine. Either you get him out here or I’ll go in there and fetch him. Your choice.” She crossed her arms and I could practically see the roots shoot out of her feet. She wasn’t budging.

  Hart remained silent, and I saw the group on the porch had become still. I leaned in close to Sister’s implacable face. “Sister, please don’t do this. Please don’t do this to Mrs. Shivers. For God’s sake, her boy’s been murdered. You’ll embarrass yourself and our whole family.”

  Her mouth crinkled, but she wasn’t to be diverted. “I’m only interested in one former member of the family right now, Jordy. Go get him, please.”

  I knew from her tone that there was no arguing with her. All I could try to do was minimize the damage. I glanced at Hart and headed up to the house.

  Under other circumstances, Trey might consider me fetching him a rescue. He’d been cornered by Wanda Dickensheets and her mother, Ivalou Purcell. Ivalou’s not one of my favorite people. She always sweetens you up with honeyed words, but she’s so mean her folks fed her with a slingshot. I was not pleased she’d decided to phone Sister and stir up trouble. When I came in, Trey had a tired, indulgent smile on his face while Ivalou bragged about the fortune Ed and Wanda were going to see from their new Elvis emporium.

  Ivalou leaned in over Trey and patted her helmet of tightly curled gray hair.

  “I’m so glad you could come see poor Truda in her time of need. Of course it’s too bad you didn’t get to see Clevey before he passed away. Bad timing, I guess. Anyhow, I should go out and say hello to Hart. I haven’t seen him in several weeks.”

  Probably because he saw you first, I thought, but didn’t say. Ivalou was one of the more piranhalike of the local widows, avidly seeking bachelor flesh to sink her teeth into. Trey glanced up at me, clearly recognizing that he was caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “Ladies.” I nodded to Wanda and Ivalou. “If y’all will excuse us, I need to talk to Trey privately.”

  Ivalou Purcell kept her pasted-on smile glued in place. Wanda took the hint and steered her mother into a conversation with Cayla Foradory. Ivalou followed her, but not before sharing with us: “Yes, I’m sure you two boys have a great deal to catch up on. Seen your family yet, Trey?” She didn’t wait for an answer; she wasn’t interested in one, anyway. I waited until Ivalou was out of striking range before I leaned down to Trey’s ear.

  “Look, Trey, Arlene’s outside and she’s insisting on seeing you. If I don’t come back with you, she’s coming in here with both guns blazing, and I
don’t want anything to upset poor Mrs. Shivers any further. So I’m sorry, but you’re going outside to talk with her.”

  I could feel tension surge through his body. “Why- why’s she here now?”

  “I don’t know. It’s your problem now, not mine.” I wasn’t about to get in between the irresistible force and the immovable object. I pivoted his chair on its back wheels and rolled him outside. His fingers, white with strain, gripped the armrests. Arlene wasn’t on the porch; she stood off a ways, on the grass. Hart Quadlander was talking to her, but she ignored him, her arms crossed against the cold. I saw Davis, an arm looped around Bradley; Eula Mae acting fretful; Steven Teague talking softly with Ed, who sat perched on the porch railing. Davis moved forward and helped me carry Trey and the chair down the porch stairs. I pushed Trey toward Sister, the wheels rolling softly across the winter-dry grass, the ebbing breeze chilling my arms.

  I couldn’t look at Trey as I wheeled him to his ex-wife. Despite the anger I still felt for him, it smacked too much of serving the Christian to the lion. He was confronting the woman he’d abandoned, and there was no escape, and I wanted her to give him the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. But at the same time I felt sorry for Trey. And no, it’s not that men always stick together. He’d acted unforgivably. But there was something so terribly implacable in my sister’s face, even as the wreck of the man she’d loved was set before her. I prayed Candace never looked at me that way.

  Sister uncrossed her arms and put her hands behind her as I stopped Trey’s chair. She wavered for a moment; seeing him was unnerving; I knew that from experience. This was not the Trey she’d loved and bedded and bore a child with and grew to hate. This was some other man to her, and I could see the confusion cross her face. She looked at me; I shook my head. She glanced at Hart, who suddenly found a need to go up on the porch. I didn’t want to leave them alone, although I knew I should.